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JobChapter 41

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Look, any hope of taking him is false; the mere sight of him lays a man low.
No one is fierce enough to rouse him. Who then can stand before me?
Who has ever given me anything first, that I should repay him? Whatever is under all the heavens is mine.
I will not keep silent about his limbs, his mighty strength, his graceful frame.
Who can strip off his outer coat? Who can approach him within his double armor?* *Or 'within his double bridle'; the Hebrew word means 'bridle,' often understood here as the creature's jaws or double row of scales.
Who can pry open the doors of his face? His teeth are ringed with terror.
His pride is his rows of shields, shut up tight as with a seal.
Each one presses against the next; not even air can pass between them.
They cling to one another, locked so fast they cannot be pulled apart.
His snorting flashes out light; his eyes are like the first rays of dawn.
Out of his mouth go blazing torches; sparks of fire shoot from him.
Smoke streams from his nostrils, as from a pot boiling over a fire of reeds.
His breath sets coals ablaze, and flame leaps from his mouth.
Strength has its lair in his neck, and dismay dances before him.
The folds of his flesh cling together, cast solid, immovable.
His heart is hard as stone, hard as a lower millstone.
When he rises up, the mighty are terrified; at the crashing they shrink back.
The sword that reaches him accomplishes nothing, nor does spear or dart or javelin.
He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood.
The arrow cannot drive him off; sling stones are nothing but chaff to him.
He reckons the club as stubble, and laughs at the whir of the spear.
His underside is jagged potsherds; he leaves the mud furrowed like a threshing sledge.
He makes the deep boil like a pot; he churns the sea into a jar of ointment.
Behind him he leaves a shining wake; you would think the deep had turned white with age.
Nothing on earth is his equal, a creature made without fear.
He surveys all that is lofty; he is king over every proud beast.
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